Beautiful Monster
by DOZ
Summary: Moments in the life of Lumen Ann Pierce - from the murder of Jordan Chase, her imminent return and everything in between and beyond.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Beautiful Monster

**Author: **DOZ89

**Rating:** PG-13

**Spoilers: **Season 5 in general, I guess

**Disclaimer: **If this were mine, Lumen would be kicking it in Miami with Dexter.

**Summary: **Moments in the life of Lumen Ann Pierce - from the murder of Jordan Chase, her imminent return and everything in between and beyond.

**Author's Notes: **When I first watched the season finale, I was fuming, but after re-watching it several times I now have a somewhat newfound appreciation for how Lumen left. It was bittersweet and gut-wrenching and beautiful. But I wanted to write something that helped me accept why she would leave him so abruptly. This story is kind of disjointed, but that's due to it following Lumen, whose thought process (I think) would be rather chaotic. There are some really good fics that depict Dexter's thoughts, emotions, etc which is another reason I thought it would be interesting to do one with Lumen in mind. Please let me know what you think. Good? Bad?

* * *

Only months ago, she looked darkness in the eye and saw their faces.

Now, after everything, she looks into their blood-red depths and sees _her_ reflection.

With clarity as sharp as the knife she currently wields.

She feels flesh and bone yield to metal, the edge of the handle biting into her palm. Her blood sings as his own stains her fingertips.

Jordan's lifeless eyes stare blankly into the void. Just moments before they were gleaming in unabashed rapture, his chest puffed up in an impossibly dignified way, his lips twisted in malicious pride at his greatest creation.

Her.

Transformed. Beautiful. A monster.

No longer was she the unflaggingly obedient girl from Minneapolis who ran away from the stifling constraints of what was purportedly the American Dream, but a hardened and undeniably _shattered_ woman driven only by her thirst for vengeance and the man who aided her in exacting it.

They had broken her, robbed her of all she had (in every way she could possibly fathom, more so in ways she couldn't), and when they had finished they did it again (and again), leaving behind an empty husk of a human being. But despite her bruised and battered body, her crushed spirit, she – like a phoenix – rose from the ashes, promising herself and the men who had destroyed her that she would inflict upon them the same destruction.

Only Boyd's occupation alluded to their depravity, the tightly coiled darkness hidden behind the carefully-constructed facade of husband, father, protector, a figure of inspiration for so many who were too afraid to _take it_.

If only they knew.

Jordan Chase. The puppet-master and revered leader of a perverse circle of men who brought to life their warped desires by ruining those of women who bore _her_ likeness, greedily eating away at any goodness they had to offer until death became a welcomed reprieve. But even then, once his men had had their fill and their carnality had temporarily abated, electrocution was surely as painful as the horror from which the women had been recently freed.

Hardly a fair exchange.

She too had yearned for death, cried for it (please stop! let me go! kill me _now_!). She had pleaded and screamed until her throat grew hoarse and dry and the coppery taste of blood choked her. But her captors showed no sign of granting her the mercy of eternal oblivion, ruthlessly continuing to batter her to within an inch of her life.

Then _he_ had saved her.

And that had changed everything.

In breaking her down she was left with nothing but brittle, jagged pieces that formed a feeble mimicry of the woman she once was, the woman she could never be again.

The doe-eyed girl she had been was gone, replaced by the beast that snarled and clawed and thrashed within her, begging to be unleashed upon the ones who created it.

Dexter may have given her the gift of freedom, but her will to live was overshadowed by her want (_need_) for retribution. Her resolute single-mindedness to avenge what was done to her was matched only by his futile attempts to send her away.

He couldn't kill her.

His Code wouldn't allow it.

But his letting her live was a direct violation of the fundamental principle upon which his entire Code was based: not getting caught. She'd seen him kill, watched as he stabbed a secured Boyd Fowler, wearing a kitchen apron and rubber gloves.

And still he'd chosen to keep her alive.

His mind grappled between the natural instinct of self-preservation and an entirely new emotion: guilt. Could he bring himself to wear the responsibility of another innocent's death for the sake of the Code? A code he has broken more than once and for far less altruistic reasons?

So she lived.

Only to descend back into the darkness he had freed her from, to deal death against the ones who had broken her.

Against Jordan who now lies immobile before them, his blood pooling at their feet.

She touches her face, pushes her hair behind her ears, gasping, "I'm sorry." She sucks in a breath. "I know that's not how you're supposed to do it."

She hears herself speak, almost faint and far away. To anyone else (anyone _normal_), they would have recoiled in disgust, in shame at the twisted perversity of her words.

She feels nothing.

Nothing but the animal inside her screaming for moremore_more_.

TBC

Happy new year everyone!


	2. Chapter 2

Before Debra gives them a chance to escape, Lumen briefly ponders the possibility of prison. Could she survive it? (She has undoubtedly endured worse.) But could she bear to wear the label of 'murderer'? Could she live with the fact that she is now a reflection of the ones she had set out to destroy?

And the answer is the same.

She would do it again.

* * *

She watches as the ocean embraces the garbage bags containing Jordan's body, arms wide open to engulf evidence of her darkness into its own.

A bag is released. A splash forms. A drop hits her cool skin.

Then nothing.

There are no more men left to hunt, and she feels no less calm now than when she had shot Dan Mandell.

She was never naive enough to believe that she would suddenly find the peace she had been searching for after killing Jordan, but she had hoped (with all the humanity she's convinced herself she has left) that killing him would lessen the bloodlust that has become as much a part of her as the man with whom she shares the same ravenous hunger.

Though his touch makes it easier for her to ignore the bellows inside her, she knows with all the certainty in the world:

The beast remains.

* * *

When they reach his apartment, they strip themselves of their clothes. He instructs her to put her soiled garments into a garbage bag, to take a shower while he disposes of it. The adrenaline driving earlier has finally reached its end point, so she wordlessly complies. He takes one lingering look at her before he leaves her to cleanse herself.

Of her demons? The blood?

She can't stop the mirthless laugh that escapes her.

Because she knows now, as scalding hot water beats down on her back, it will take more than a shower to wash away the stain of her memories, the knowledge that she would have never been what she is without the oh-so-gracious assistance of one Jordan Chase.

She isn't ashamed of what she has become; only that she's become this woman because of _him_. From the nothingness they had stripped her down to, she'd evolved into a stronger, _colder_ woman who would stop at nothing in her quest for vengeance.

He had been so disgustingly pleased, here she was: living, breathing proof that in the face of tragedy, in the wake of ruin, she had found the strength that would have previously gone untouched, to rise above her destruction.

She had transformed. Just as he had.

She has to swallow the bile that forms in her throat at being likened to him, a reaction she'd felt no need to suppress even at the grisly sight of newly-dismembered bodies.

And she hates him. So fucking much.

Because he wrenched from the darkness (_her_ darkness), the ugly truth she hadn't even known she was hiding, casting it into the light, stark and blinding.

She is what she is because of him.

But damned if she'll thank him for anything, damned that she was (is still) too much of a coward that she needed _him_ to show her how much more she could be.

She quickly finishes showering, drying herself. She doesn't bother with clothes as she slips into bed, looking over at empty space beside her.

Dexter.

Her light in the shadows that has now consumed her life.

And she knows that as long as she stays, she will draw him even deeper, she will extinguish the humanity she has no doubt resides within him, if only he weren't too afraid to confront it.

She runs a hand over the sheets, closing her eyes.

_You deserve more._

She doesn't sleep that night.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Her bags are packed (she doesn't have many) by the time he returns from breakfast with the other part of his life. She's rehearsed the lines she needs to say in order to drive him away, to let her leave so that he'd be free to live the life father, widow without having to worry about the one he shares with his 'partner' bleeding into the other.

She feeds him the lies (a little too convincingly), and when the plates he throws in a display of emotion collides with the stove, she feels something shatter inside.

_I don't hate you. I'll never hate you._

She comforts him. She needs it too (needs _him_) but she can't poison him any more than she already has.

She does utter one truth.

She doesn't really want to go.

* * *

Her rental car contains nothing more than one suitcase, a duffel bag and her purse. Inside her purse is her wallet, two blood slides, a pair of leather gloves and a pocket knife.

A sliver of the plates he had broken this morning presses against her chest.

They all remind her of him.

She drives until she reaches Fort Lauderdale, where she pulls up on the side of the road, rests her head on the wheel and gasps.

She finally allows herself to cry.

For him. Them. (She doesn't think she's worth crying solely for herself).

But the tears continue to flow until she's sobbed herself dry and her body can't take it anymore.

She then leans back against the headrest, attempting to stifle the hiccups. After a few moments (an eternity), her breathing evens out and she can almost convince herself that she's doing the right thing.

Almost.

* * *

When she stops for fuel, she peruses the not-so-vast selection of food available to her at the gas station.

She doesn't want to eat, despite the almost constant groaning of her stomach.

She pays for the gas and buys some dry packaged biscuits with a bottle of water. She then deposits them into the car and heads to the bathroom.

As she washes her hands, she looks down at her fingers, nails neatly trimmed. She examines each digit in excruciating detail to find no trace of blood underneath them, no evidence that she had been the one to murder Jordan Chase. A booming roar resounds from within her, her demons screaming for more sacrifice.

She looks down at her hands.

Soap and water have washed away more than blood; it's taken the only form of payment that grants her a moment's peace from the monster within.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

She drives for as long as she can, stopping only to sleep (not long) and to eat (not much).

Once she reaches Minnesota, she drives around to places that once held meaning for her but are now nothing more than vague impressions from a dream that had once been her life.

She visits the park she had frequented as a child, sits on the swing-set she used to spend hours on while gleefully telling her father to push her even higher.

So long ago.

(A lifetime.)

She passes by the restaurant Owen had proposed to her. She waits for that elated feeling she'd experienced when he had knelt down on one knee and asked her to be his wife.

Nothing.

Finally, she finds herself near the front of her old house, the one she was going to marry Owen in, the one in which she'd grown up.

She stares from a distance at a life she can no longer live.

Her mother and father sit side-by-side on the swinging chair on the front porch, watching their grandchildren run around in the front yard after their puppy. Her sister's husband has his arm draped on her shoulders, while they smile and laugh cheerily as the apples of their eye run wildly on the lawn.

The perfect life.

What she had – at one point – wanted, but can no longer remember why.

Was it the white picket fence? (Trapped.)

The constant, reassuring presence of family? (Suffocating.)

Or the pretty, blond children she would inevitably bear to rear and mold to want the same? (Overwhelming.)

And it's just as it was before, her chest tightens and her eyes glaze over and she can't fucking _breathe_.

She doesn't belong here, she's not the same.

She didn't want it then and she doesn't want it now.

It's taken a brutal violation of her body, multiple murders and the gentle yet _unwavering_ support of a man just as broken as her to realize what it was she did want, what she had much too easily left behind in Miami.

And with an absolutely painful clarity, it dawns on her that she'd let slip through her fingers the only person in the world who understood her, accepted her not in spite of her demons but because of it.

Then she'd ran.

Ran because she knew they'd lose themselves to each other.

He in her darkness. She in his.

She knew that killing them would never have been wholly successful without him. She could have tried and she might have even been able to dispatch of one, maybe two, but _never_ Jordan.

Dexter had jeopardized everything to help her, had put at stake his very life to ensure her vengeance was exacted. He'd made a space for her in a life he couldn't share with anyone, not even his wife.

So she turns the ignition on and heads back to the city that had destroyed her, hardened her, to the man who had saved her, and though she'd repaid him by turning her back on him (_them_), she knows she needs him too damn much _not_ to go back.

* * *

On her way to Miami, she eats and sleeps even less than she had when she'd traveled to Minnesota.

And it takes her less than a moment to discover why.

She's coming home.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

Sooner than she expects, her ears are filled with Latin music and her body thrums with the familiar heat.

Lumen Ann Pierce has come home.

* * *

It's late at night when she arrives at his apartment and his car isn't there.

Tonight is one of _those_ nights.

She waits for him to come back.

* * *

She's tired, but she's too tense and anxious to deal with her fatigue and just when she thinks he may not return, she sees his car park in its usual space. Her fingers grip the wheel as she watches him get out of his car, retrieve the innocuous bag concealing everything he needs on a night like this. He trudges towards his apartment, opens the door and vanishes into his domain.

Minutes later, she sees Harrison's nanny make her exit, driving away.

She tells herself that she has to go nownow_now_, but her fingers just won't let go of the steering wheel and her body is paralysed by the fear that suddenly seizes her.

What was she expecting would happen? He'd open the door, smile and let her back into his life with open arms? He'd done all he could to drive her away when they'd first met and he hadn't even _liked_ her then. Pitied, maybe, out of self-preservation mostly, but there was no affection that steered his actions.

And now? He may very well turn her away with all the righteous bitterness of someone scorned.

And she wouldn't blame him.

And just as she's about to turn the engine on and drive away, that's when it dawns on her that she would rather try again (_really_ try) and have him spurn her (a fitting punishment for her cowardice) instead of running away and never truly knowing.

With renewed vigour, she gets out of the rental car and walks (one step at a time) to his apartment door, raps loud enough that he would hear, but soft enough that it wouldn't wake Harrison in case he was sleeping.

Her heart is pounding, she hears footsteps behind the door, and all the breath is knocked from her lungs when the door opens. He's standing before her and she's helpless against the tide of tears because how could she fucking leave him? How did she delude herself into thinking she could possibly live without him?

He stands there, a mixture of bewilderment and caution plays on his face. He looks like he's about to slam the door in hers, a prospect she both dreads and expects. She'd been the only one who hadn't run away in horror at the truth of who (_what_) he really was. And she'd adamantly declared that she wouldn't leave.

Until she did.

She releases an uneven breath, "Dexter."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

He stares at her like he can't believe it.

And why would he? She'd been the one who left so swiftly after she'd convinced him her mission was accomplished.

She bites the inside of her cheek, "Can I come in?"

He glances over his shoulder; Astor and Cody are sound asleep on the couch and a mattress on the floor beside it. He ponders for a brief moment, before he steps forward, closing the door silently behind him.

Something drops (heavy, _fast_) inside of her.

Something that feels suspiciously like her heart.

It's more than his apartment he's closing off from her.

It's the life he could have shared with her (_would_ have) if she had stayed.

He looks terrible, bloodshot eyes with dark rings underneath them, as if he's had as little sleep as she has.

_I did this, I did this to him_.

She sucks in a gasp, about to speak.

He beats her to it, "Why are you here?"

She bites back the tears, knows that there isn't a reason that will ever be enough.

She could lie, but she won't. She's done enough damage (will probably do more).

So she gives him the truth, "I had to."

He flinches.

She'd said a variation of those words the day she had left.

_I don't want to go-I have to-_

He's leaning against the door, eyes half-shut, "Why?"

She forces her lower lip to stop trembling, "I needed—I needed _you_." A beat. "And I'd hoped that maybe...you needed me too...even a little."

His face is blank, but beyond the emptiness in his voice is a whirlwind of emotion he doesn't believe himself to possess, "You left." He pauses. When he continues, his tone is inflected with just enough bitterness to sting. "You left because of me."

She shakes her head, "No—"

"Don't lie to me."

His voice is no louder, but no less piercing.

She can just detect it, the barely-restrained rage boiling beneath the surface, waiting to be set free.

His eyes are almost blazing.

She just manages to stop herself from stepping back at their intensity.

He was never angry.

And never at _her_.

He stands straight, looking down at her, "You couldn't do it anymore, remember?"

Her words are laced with anger (not at him, _never_ him) and fatigue and frustration when she retorts, "I lied."

His eyes suddenly grow dull, his face falls, his shoulders slump.

And he looks so _so _lost.

He stares blankly at the water nearby, the waves crashing in the shore almost overpowering the softly-spoken word he utters, "Why?"

She takes a step forward, her hand slowly rising to touch his neck.

He recoils imperceptibly (barely), but it's enough for her to feel the ball of emotion forming in her throat.

She clenches her jaw, retracting her hand for it to lie limply at her side. Her vision is clouded by her tears, by the hatred she feels so intensely for herself. She almost walks away (again), to spare him from whatever pain she has yet to inflict.

Then his voice (soft and far away) pulls her from the sea of her self-loathing.

"Why?"

She grips the handle of her bag, the leather grates against her skin.

Her eyes focus on a spot on his left shoulder and then she speaks, her voice steady, but only just, "Jordan was so...twisted, but he got a few things right." Her eyes meet his. "I am what I am because of him."

He looks at her; no longer blaming, not quite sympathetic, "You're not the monster you think you are."

She replies easily, "Neither are you."

"Yes, I am. That's why you left."

"No—"

"Just stop—"

Their conversation has turned redundant and cyclical and she's terrified that she won't be able to break it.

Everything is dependent on what she says next.

The strap of her bag falls off her shoulder as she steps forward, as everything she wants (_needs_) to say flows forth from her lips, "I left because it took what they did to me for me to find what I wanted."

She looks him straight in the eye. He looks as if he's about to interrupt (again), so she continues now that words just spill from her mouth as easily as her tears.

"I lied because if I told you the truth, you'd convince me to stay and I would have. And I'd be reminded that everything that had happened, all of it would lead me to you. It terrified me that I would need someone so much."

She's short of breath, somewhat dizzy, but she's never been more acutely aware of her surroundings (_him_).

His face softens minutely, "What's changed?"

She breathes in, smiles thickly through the haze of her tears, whispering with all the strength and willpower she has left, "Nothing."

And with that, she offers to him all she wants, all she is and could ever be.

His to do with what he will.

But he does nothing. Makes no move to take what has always been his.

The silence between them stretches taut and when he remains resolutely still, she's flooded with shame and remorse and _screaming_ from deep within her.

The tears return, but she doesn't let him see them fall as she turns to walk away, "I should go."

But then she feels his index and thumb encircle her wrist, warm and dry and infinitely gentle. She lets him slowly turn her around until she's facing him once more, pinning her in place with his eyes and a single word, "Stay."

Her fingers then brush his neck again.

_I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Please believe me._

He doesn't flinch.

Their chests barely touch and his own fingers reach up to stroke her forehead, before he gently replaces it with his lips. Her eyes flutter shut, tears staining her cheeks as they stream down her face and she sees the message behind the gesture.

_I forgive you._

And for at least that moment, the screams stop.

TBC

**A/N: Dedicated to Jack E. Peace: you are an uber-awesome reviewer and hopefully this will help take your mind off being snowed in. **


	7. Chapter 7

She checks in at a nearby motel, they both agree that the children won't be able to handle her sudden presence in the morning if she had stayed.

Initially, he visits her every day before and after work. He doesn't stay long in the morning, just a few minutes, and it soon dawns on her that he's simply checking to make sure she hasn't disappeared again. Her chest always tightens at the thought that maybe he needs her too; in every intense look he sends her way, in the sly touches to the small of her back, her knee, her neck.

After work, he always lingers a little longer, but never long enough.

A week into their routine, she begins to think he doesn't want her and she's so shocked that she's even thinking of _that_ again, but it's _Dexter_ and he would never _ever_ hurt her.

He's washing the dishes despite her vehement protesting, while she packs the leftovers and puts it away in the refrigerator. Their eyes meet for a moment, but it's enough.

She gazes into his muddy depths and she feels her breath quicken as she's slowly consumed by the growing darkness in his eyes.

She swallows.

Steps forward.

And the dam breaks.

He abandons the dishes, doesn't even dry his hands before they find the skin of her hips, sending both an icy chill and a burning fire up and down her spine. His lips find hers with an ease that doesn't surprise her.

There's no hesitation to his kiss, and it's only then that she realizes that he has been waiting, and she can't help but moan into his mouth. He's always waiting (for her, for _them_) and the only insistence he exhibits is in his touch, firm and assured on her waist, her back, her nape. Her arms coil around his neck as her head tilts at an angle that deepens the joining of their lips.

She hears him whimper (so quiet) and she presses herself closer, breaks their kiss, resting her forehead on his heaving chest. Her eyes are half-shut and his arms are tightly swathed around her torso.

She brushes her mouth into the spot below his ear that makes him quake and murmurs his name so low she feels her throat will be sore for days, "Dexter."

She feels him tremble, lifts her chin and kisses her with a passion only she witnesses. She returns it; she's never needed anything (anyone) as much as him, and she too quivers at her desperation for something she never thought she'd want again.

She then feels his hands drift downward, resting on the back of her thighs and it's only natural that she allows him to lift her up, that she snakes her legs around his waist so he can carry her to the bedroom.

And when he places her tenderly on the bed, he looks down at her and asks – without uttering a single word – for her permission. She replies by pulling him down, kissing him with all the love she doesn't think she's capable of, reaching for the hem of his shirt and pulling it over his head. He mirrors the action, his lips hovering over every inch of skin that's exposed, and she has to stop the tears that suddenly burn behind her eyes, because how could he possibly think he's a monster?

No monster could ever be so tender.

And she had left.

She quavers as he kisses his way up her body, stopping at her forehead. Always there.

And it's too much.

Her eyes are squeezed shut and she clutches his back (tight), choking on her traitorous tears, "I'm sorry. I'm so so sorry."

He kisses her forehead once more, before dropping his lips to each eyelid, catching the tears hanging on the thread of her lashes, whispers, "Open your eyes."

Her lower lip trembles, and as she slowly obeys his bidding, she's pinned down; by the hand that comes to rest above her heart, by the intensity of his gaze, shining with a love he doesn't think he's capable of either.

Then he pushes inside her.

She gasps. He releases a breath.

No one has ever been so painstakingly gentle.

No one else will ever be.

And she knows she doesn't deserve him. But she also knows she's selfish.

Eventually, he may grow tired and weary of her and he may very well chase her away.

But she will stay for as long as he will have her.

So she moves with him, legs locked low on his back and arms fastened around his shoulders, giving as much as she takes, saying – without speaking – how so very much he means to her. And as they draw closer and closer to the euphoria that awaits them, she can hear him repeat her name like a mantra in her ear. She's never heard her uttered with such reverence and it steals her breath and moments before she is swept away in a whirlwind of ecstasy, she arches up into him.

"Dexter."

They then ride the waves of their passion as one, spilling forth into each other until it's indistinguishable where each other ends and the other begins.

His lips form her name once more and the hand on her chest, its twin splayed possessively on the side of her face, fingers cupping her cheek, his thumb brushing her lips, reassures her more than any words ever could.

_I won't let you go._

TBC

**A/N: Dedicated to Jack E. Peace - for being awesome and it must suck to be snowed in.**


	8. Chapter 8

After the first time they make love since she's returned, he asks her to accompany him to dinner with Astor, Cody and Harrison several evenings later.

She blanches at the request.

She doesn't want to come face-to-face with proof that she doesn't deserve him, that she could never compare to the one who once stood in her stead. He has been her rock, her constant in everything since he'd rescued her, just as Rita had been for him.

An angel.

Not dark, not fallen, but pure and good and everything Lumen wasn't and could never be.

She can feel her head almost spinning until two of his fingers skim her elbow, retrieving her from her reverie. His brows are furrowed quizzically, uncertain yet concerned.

She tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear, crossing her arms and opening her mouth to say something (_anything_), but the words don't come.

He then turns rigid, shifts his glance to the side, pausing for a moment to think, his tone far too casual, "If you don't want to..."

She knows what he's thinking, that she wants to run again.

But she's likes to think she's less of a coward now.

She still can't speak, so she takes a step closer to him, stands near him, not touching, but staring into his eyes, reassuring him that she isn't going anywhere, that she will do this for him.

After several long moments, the corner of his lips turns up infinitesimally, a gesture she then reflects.

She's still afraid, still fights the natural compulsion to tuck tail and run when things turn difficult, but _he's_ here and for now it's enough.

* * *

Dinner is...awkward.

Dexter introduces her as his...partner.

She's more than a little shocked when he does as such. She'd assumed he would give her the harmless label of friend or acquaintance, but she overcomes her surprise by giving them what she hopes is a comforting smile.

Harrison keeps reaching out for her; Lumen doesn't know if it's because he remembers her or because he doesn't and merely wants to be on the receiving end of another person's attention. This, to her utter surprise, doesn't earn her any contemptuous glares from Astor (more wary glances than anything else). Cody, after several stilted attempts at conversation, seems to treat her with a sort of bemused affability, which Lumen believes is better than him screaming in her face that his mother should be here instead of her.

But it was Astor Lumen had been most anxious in meeting again.

As soon as she'd first laid her inebriated eyes on Lumen, Astor had done nothing to conceal her blatant disdain for her step-father's 'tenant', labeling her his girlfriend every chance she could, despite her and Dexter's relationship being completely non-romantic at that point.

The young girl that sits before Lumen now is not entirely different (but definitely not the same) as the one she'd initially encountered, exuding – instead of palpable hatred – caution, concern.

She's worried about her family.

Harrison soon needs a diaper change. Lumen offers, but Dexter refuses, leaving her with Astor and Cody. Astor has her arms crossed over her chest, scrutinizing her in such a way a teenager can, while Cody continues to plough through his dinner.

Lumen doesn't break their gaze, keeps it steady, not aggressive.

Then Astor blinks, leans forward, voicing a question only an adolescent can do so indifferently, "Do you love him?"

Cody's head cranes upward at the question, focusing on both his sister and the woman in front of him, curious.

Lumen's throat immediately goes dry, and underneath the table her fingers claw at the fabric of her pants, "I don't know what he's told you about me."

She cocks her head to the side, frowning slightly, "He said he'd been helping you." A beat. "That you'd gone through bad stuff."

Lumen's temples suddenly ache from gritting her jaw so hard, as sharp images of everything – the broken sounds of her screaming – play again in her mind. One hand digs painfully into her thigh as she wills the memories to go away, her fingers on the other hand coming up to pinch the bridge of her nose. When she casts her eyes back up, she sees Astor peering at her with a begrudging sympathy.

"Like my mom."

Lumen bites the inside of her cheek; she doesn't know much about what had happened to Rita, only that she'd died a horrific death (one she didn't deserve).

Lumen shifts in her seat, feeling the fabric of her shirt rubbing against the raised scars on her back, reminding her of why she could never be _normal_, attempting to keep her voice neutral as she speaks through the parchedness of her throat, "I'm not trying to replace your mom." Before Astor can respond, Lumen continues. "Dexter did...he did help me." She smiles wetly. "He helped me a lot. And the truth?" She then bites back the tears that threaten to form, tone nowhere near as steady as she would have liked. "That word isn't enough to describe what he means to me."

Astor's expression softens somewhat, but before she can respond, Dexter returns with Harrison, sidling in next to her until their thighs are pressed against each other. Solid and comforting.

"Everything OK?"

His eyes dart from Astor to Lumen, Cody has already returned to his meal.

Astor flicks her hair over her shoulder, nodding, "Everything's fine."

Lumen breathes.

TBC

**A/N Sorry about the delay. I've just changed laptops and I lost the original file, plus life hasn't really been kind lately, but thank you all for sticking through.**


	9. Chapter 9

She's just finished showering when she catches a glimpse of the spider web of welts adorning her back. She can never see the extent of the damage (something she's both grateful and resentful for), but as she reaches behind her and runs her fingers down the ridges of her scars, she's struck by how hideous they must be.

A permanent reminder of all she had endured at the hands of perverted men.

She leans her head against the mirror, her breath adding to the fog from the warmth of her shower.

Then she registers the door opening.

She doesn't turn around. She knows who it is. In the gentle way his mouth caresses her name.

"Lumen."

She mumbles incoherently against the glass.

She hears him draw closer, speaking into the steam, "I knocked."

She breathes out, opens her eyes to look at his reflection, but his eyes are focused on her back. She lifts her robe to cover them, swiveling to face him. His expression is unreadable and she's suddenly afraid that he finds them as grotesque as she does.

She tightens the robe around her body, "I didn't mean to worry you. I just...saw them." She doesn't clarify. (Doesn't have to.) "I didn't realize how ugly they were."

He frowns (not in disgust), then he takes a step forward, then another until he's standing right in front of her and she's more than a little perplexed (unsettled) by him.

She looks up at him, at the intense orbs that bore down on her, on her neck, clean and exposed. His fingers come up, barely brushing up and down the side of her neck and she has to concentrate to keep her balance at his touch. Then his hand lowers (slowly) to her shoulder, taking her robe with it, but before it slides down the curve of her shoulder, she stiffens. Then he's staring so deeply into her eyes and she's certain he can see all that she tries so desperately to hide.

Her fears, her doubts, her self-loathing.

That familiar ache in the center of her chest whenever she looks at him and tries to imagine her life without him in it only to realize that she simply _can't_.

He implores through their gaze for her to trust him.

And she does.

She loosens her grip and closes her eyes as the robe falls, pooling at her elbows. His hands drift to her nape, tracing random patters as it journeys languorously downward. She releases a soft whimper as his fingers follow the line of her scars, but just before she pulls away, his lips touch her forehead.

And it's everything.

It's in moments like this that make her stay, that make her hope that the day may come when she could be as beautiful as he thinks she is, that one day she may deserve him.

TBC

**A/N: Thanks for your reviews.**


	10. Chapter 10

Astor holds Harrison at her hip, watching Dexter as he prepares dinner. He feels her eyes on him, but keeps his sight resolutely on the food he's cooking. Astor then marches to his side and he knows she'll ask or tell him something that will leave him on edge.

"Dexter?"

He looks down at her, turning the stove off, "Yes."

She tilts her head to the side, "Do you still love Mom?"

Dexter stills (he hadn't been expecting that), "Astor..."

His eyes shift down to his wedding ring, a reminder of the man he could have been without his Dark Passenger, how as long as he had someone who believed that there was good in him, he could too.

He'd hidden the truth from Rita, but she had always believed that he would eventually overcome whatever darkness resided within him.

And he had loved her for the unwavering faith he didn't think he deserved but nevertheless treasured.

His eyes flutter shut, before he takes a deep breath, "Your mom was perfect."

He glances at Astor. So much like her mother. From the way she held Harrison, to the scrutinizing glint in her eye.

He sighs, "She was the best person I knew." His voice lowers, but his words are unmistakable. "I'll always love her."

He's surprised by the sincerity in his voice. It appears to throw Astor somewhat off guard, before the mask of obnoxious teenager easily slides into place.

She tucks her hair behind her ears, chin slightly raised, "OK."

She then ventures back into the living room, calling over her shoulder, "I think she would have liked Lumen."

She places Harrison in his play pen and watches over him.

Dexter looks on. The void inside of him left from Rita's death suddenly feels less like a gaping wound and more like a healing scar.

He will always be grateful for her. To her.

For always believing there was more to him than what he'd limited himself to. For giving him a son he never knew he wanted until they'd discovered she was pregnant. For trusting him enough to share her family, her children with him after their own father threatened to break it.

Rita will always remain a joyful memory and he will always believe she died an unjust death (because of him), but he thinks that she would want him to find that happiness she thought he deserved.

He likes to think that Astor could be right.

That Rita would have liked Lumen.

* * *

When Dexter asks Lumen to come over for pizza night, she's only slightly hesitant before she agrees and Astor is a little less antagonistic, glares are barely there (though she may have just grown more adept at hiding it). It isn't much; more than inches, less than baby steps.

But it's _something_.

It's progress.

It's close to what he'd shared with Rita. It's the closest he's ever been to having it all.

TBC


End file.
